


i want you close (i want you)

by bropunzeling



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Team Young Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't tell me you're too good for Spin the Bottle," Jake says.</p>
<p>“Of course we’re too good for Spin the Bottle,” Jack argues, because, well, it’s <i>Spin the Bottle</i>. Jack’s too good for it on principle.</p>
<p>“No one is too good for Spin the Bottle.” Jake replies, pointing his beer bottle at Jack. “Spin the Bottle out-goods you all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want you close (i want you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is ohtempora and hawkwardly's faults, because they said "spin the bottle!" and "kissing!" and "mceichel!" and i said oKAY YEAH OKAY. thanks to hawkwardly for the beta. title from closer by tegan and sara.

“Team bonding” is the excuse Jake Trouba gives when he drags Jack and Huberdeau out of their hotel room in Ontario. “We,” he says, spreading his arms wide like he’s about to give a fucking locker room inspirational speech or some bullshit, “the young guns, must come together. Only then can we be victorious and fucking kick the world’s ass.”

“Jesus, okay, we’ll come to your goddamn party,” Jack replies, hoping to god it’s just them on this floor of the hotel. Otherwise he’s pretty sure Trouba’s going to earn them all a noise complaint.

Jake grins at him and Jon, and that’s how Jack ends up on the floor of Trouba and Jones’ hotel room, slightly lukewarm beer in his hand, studiously not watching Connor McDavid by the other bed. 

It’s not like – it’s not weird. They saw each other at the NHL awards, and Jack got to win the Calder, and it only tasted a little bitter to know some people would say it’s only because McDavid got hurt, because somehow McDavid still managed to ruin things for Jack even by losing.

Anyways. Jack doesn’t have any reason to watch McDavid, so he doesn’t. Isn’t. Whatever.

“Hey,” Jake yells, over the Drake that’s definitely going to get them that noise citation, if Troubs didn’t make it happen already. “Hey, hey, we should play a game!”

Over by the dresser, Nugent-Hopkins rolls his eyes.

“Why,” Aaron Ekblad asks, “do we need to play a game?”

Jake swivels and grins at him, disturbing Seth from where it looks like he actually fell asleep. “Bonding,” he says, eyes wide and a little manic.

“You and all this fucking bonding,” Johnny Gadreau yells before knocking back a shot. Jack feels almost impressed, except for the part where Gadreau’s BC and therefore something like Jack’s enemy, or should be. Except for how they’re on the same team now.

This Team North America shit is weird.

“I got it,” Jake says, dropping into his captain voice. “Spin the Bottle.”

Jack snorts from his place on the floor.

Jake just moves to glare down at him. “Don’t tell me you’re too good for Spin the Bottle.”

“Of course we’re too good for Spin the Bottle,” Jack argues, because, well, it’s _Spin the Bottle_. Nobody plays that game except 14-year-olds who’ve never kissed anyone in their lives. Jack’s too good for it on principle.

“No one is too good for Spin the Bottle.” Jake replies, pointing his beer bottle at Jack. “Spin the Bottle out-goods you all.” He ruins the effect by belching, loudly.

“You are drunk off your ass,” Seth says, pulling Trouba back and snatching the bottle away. “Lightweight.’

“That negates nothing!” Jake shouts, almost falling off the bed before Aaron catches him. Next to Aaron, McDavid is quietly drinking a beer. Jack still tries not to stare, and only half succeeds.

“Come on,” Jake continues to say, and it looks like Seth is nodding along, though Jack can’t tell if it’s to just make him feel better or actual agreement. Rather than try and figure it out, he opts to stand up and get himself another beer.

Unfortunately, the new case has mysteriously relocated itself to be next to McDavid, which makes McDavid a lot harder to ignore.

“Hey,” McDavid says, even as Jack pulls out another shitty PBR, popping the top and wishing it was colder.

“Hey,” Jack replies, because he’s not an _asshole_ , honest, he just –

“Been a while since we’ve seen each other,” McDavid says. “I mean – well. Not across the ice, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, because he does know. It’s been a long time since the NHL awards, objectively speaking. 

He tries hard to not think about the last time they saw each other in person. He doesn’t fucking succeed.

“Connor! Jack!” someone yells, and Jack turns to find all the other guys – oh Jesus. Apparently Jake was serious about Spin the Bottle after all.

“I guess we have to go play,” McDavid says, in that soft way of his.

“I guess,” Jack grumbles, heading towards the loose not-really-a-circle of guys lounging around on beds and the floor and, in Nuge’s case, on top of the dresser.

Aaron makes room for both of them to sit on the floor at the foot of the other bed, and Jack takes the opportunity to lean against it. McDavid sticks close to him, legs out in front of him, so their thighs are almost-but-not-quite touching. Someone’s procured an empty Smirnoff bottle, which explains why Johnny looks like he’s the color of a tomato, and has set it in the middle of the floor.

“So,” Jake says with the kind of energy that only happens when you’re drunk, or Jake Trouba. “Who’s going to go first?”

After a solid few seconds, Seth rolls his eyes and says, “Might as well get it over with,” earning himself a round of applause. He reaches down to give the vodka bottle a spin, and lands on Scheifele. “Hey buddy,” he says with a laugh, getting up to cross the circle and giving him a smacking kiss on the lips.

Mark just laughs. “You taste like shit,” he says, still giggling, and snatches up the bottle. “Who’s ready for this jelly?”

For being a stupid middle school game, everyone gets surprisingly into it – or not surprisingly, Jack supposes, because they’re all hockey players and stupid competitive even about shit like kissing someone who probably tastes like vodka and ass. Mark kisses Johnny, who practically climbs into Monahan’s lap when it’s his turn. Jake ends up dipping Alex when it’s his round, Alex squirming to get out and away.

“You’re like a fucking octopus,” he grumbles, earning himself Jake’s laughter.

Nobody lands on Jack until Saad, who gives an apologetic shrug before leaning over McDavid’s legs to give Jack a quick peck on the lips. He tastes like beer and chapstick, which is honestly to be expected.

“Thanks,” Jack drawls, before slowly getting up to grab the vodka bottle. He spins it lazily, hoping to get someone who’ll be quick, and also not all – grabby.

Of course, he lands on fucking McDavid, because it fucking figures.

“How the turn tables,” Jake says, which doesn’t even make any goddamn sense, but Jack can’t pay that much attention to that, because. Fuck.

“Well,” he says finally, getting up from next to the bottle and going back towards the bed, but he doesn’t finish his thought. It’s like ripping off a band-aid, he thinks, and then he leans down over McDavid and kisses him quick, just once on the lips.

He tastes the same as the last time – chapstick, a bit of vodka, but mostly just like Connor.

“Enemies no more,” MacKinnon says, which makes just about as much sense as whatever the fuck Jake was saying earlier.

Jack just sits back down at the end of the bed, carefully arranging himself so his leg doesn’t touch Connor’s. He doesn’t look to the side, but he can feel his cheeks burning all the same. 

He blames it on the beer.

Jack loses track of the rest of the night. Even when Trouba nearly suffocates him with his spit, or Monahan awkwardly gives him a peck on the lips, he’s still thinking about kissing Connor, again. He just keeps drinking his beer, and then another beer, and then decides that it’s time to just to stumble back to his room and go to bed. They have practice, tomorrow, anyways. He should sleep and shit.

“Hey,” someone says behind him. Jack knows that soft voice, knows even before he turns around that it’s going to be Connor, with his stupid acne and big eyes and way of looking at Jack like he actually gives a shit about paying attention. That look almost does more for Jack than Connor’s stick-handling.

Connor’s stick-handling does _a lot_ for Jack.

“Hey,” Jack replies, feeling defeated.

“I, um,” Connor says, and it’s like Jack’s in a replay of the NHL awards. At the NHL awards they were both a bit drunker, dressed in nice suits, and Jack had just won the Calder, finally had a day where his name wasn’t following Connor’s. Now Jack’s just tipsy and in sweatpants and still wants to kiss Connor fucking McDavid just as much now as he did then.

Jack can’t really explain it. Blaming the beer would be easy, and blaming the jealousy or the hockey would be easy too, but mostly Jack just wants to stick his tongue in Connor’s mouth, and he doesn’t know how not to want it.

“What?” he asks.

“I – can I come in?” Connor asks right back.

Jack swipes key card and holds open the door. Connor follows him inside.

“Listen,” Connor says, once the door is shut. He’s grabbing the hem of his t-shirt with his hands, pulling the fabric between his fingers. “I just –“ He laughs and says, “You remember last time?”

Jack nods. It’d be hard to forget last time. Last time they were making out in a stairwell. Jack still had his suit on, but Connor had lost his tie somehow, and Jack had spent the whole time thinking they were going to get caught, but not really caring. Last time, Jack was pretty sure it was going to be the last time, so he tried to work out all of his weird and complicated feelings about Connor McDavid in one go, like an exorcism of his stupid pointless crush.

“I just – I know we like, didn’t talk. Don’t talk,” Connor says. “But.” He looks up, and his eyes are so goddamn big. “Do you want to?”

“Again?” Jack asks, throat feeling dry.

Connor nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, I want to. If you do, that is. I mean – we did just. Kiss.”

“That wasn’t really – that didn’t count,” Jack replies.

Taking a step forward, Connor tilts his head. “You could make it count,” he says, and –

Look, making out in a stairwell did nothing to get rid of Jack’s stupid, weird feelings for Connor, and Connor’s fucking challenging him, smirking at him like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He probably _does_ know exactly what he’s doing, the shit.

That doesn’t stop Jack from taking a step of his own, to bring him up flush with Connor. It doesn’t stop him from leaning in to kiss him, again.

Connor’s hands are cold on Jack’s arms, but his lips are warm and slightly chapped from all those brutal Canadian winters. When Jack steps closer, he steadies himself, gripping Jack’s shoulders and kissing harder. He kisses better than he did last time, steady pressure, and when Jack tugs at his lip with his teeth, Connor sighs against his mouth. Jack doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, goes between holding Connor’s hips and framing his face before finally settling them at Connor’s waist, thumbs going in the divots of Connor’s hipbones.

Jack takes another step closer, and their chests bump together. He grips Connor’s hips a little tighter, and Connor makes a soft sound. Jack likes that, likes that Connor makes sounds as quiet as his voice. He reaches with one hand to cup the back of Connor’s head, to fit him a little closer, to kiss him a little harder.

With another small noise, Connor breaks the kiss. “Jack,” he says, almost a sigh.

“I – there’s a bed,” Jack says, feeling incoherent.

Connor nods quickly. “I – yeah,” he says.

It takes a bit of maneuvering but they finally make it to Jack’s bed, Connor dropping heavily to sit on the end. He uses his grip on Jack’s arms to tug him down too, making a complaining sound when Jack is too slow. “Come on,” he says, “don’t just loom above me.”

“I’m not looming,” Jack replies grumpily, shoving Connor over so they can both lie down. “Look, see? Not looming. You’re just bitching.”

“Whatever,” Connor says, rolling his eyes, because he’s secretly an asshole. It’s kind of the best thing about him. “You should get back to kissing me.”

“Aren’t you an eager beaver,” Jack says, and then he starts laughing because Canada.

“That wasn’t even funny,” Connor says flatly.

“Lighten up,” Jack replies, rolling himself to land on top of Connor, his elbows braced by Connor’s head. “I’m hilarious.”

“Only you think that,” Connor says, but before Jack can correct him, he’s kissing Jack, hard.

Jack kisses back, because, well. Connor does make a pretty good argument.

Kissing like this is better, because now they’re horizontal and Jack can grind his hips down against Connor. Connor seems to like it too, judging by the way he’s spreading his legs a bit wider to make room and by the noises he makes into Jack’s mouth. His hands keep running up and down Jack’s back, dipping under Jack’s t-shirt to scrape nails down Jack’s spine.

Jack kisses him until his mouth is sore and his lips are buzzing, and then he starts kissing down Connor’s cheek, down to his neck and the pulse point under his ear.

“No hickeys,” Connor murmurs, which, Jack isn’t an idiot, thanks, but he bites down a little just as admonishment. By the noise Connor makes, it sounds like Connor doesn’t even care all that much.

Unfortunately, Connor is still wearing a shirt, which is a fucking travesty. Jack plucks at it, pushing it up as far as it’ll go. “This should come off,” he mumbles into Connor’s neck.

“Yours too,” Connor replies, though he’s grabbing at Jack’s shoulders so hard that Jack can’t exactly get it off himself yet either.

“Fine,” Jack says against the skin of Connor’s neck, leaning back on his knees and pulling his shirt off over his head. When he’s finished tossing it towards his suitcase, he finds Connor yanking off his, exposing what seems like miles of skin that Jack really wants to reach out and touch.

So he does.

It’s easy to make Connor squirm, like this – he had no idea Connor was so fucking sensitive, but every time he runs his fingers down Connor’s ribs, or kisses across his collarbone, Connor makes a noise. So Jack keeps going, keeps touching him lightly, watching Connor’s cheeks flush and waiting for him to get frustrated. Pretty quickly Connor’s tugging at his hair, pulling him back down and kissing him again. Somehow Connor’s thigh got between Jack’s legs, and at some point Jack grinds down to find it there, and shit, that feels good.

Judging by the way Jack can feel Connor’s erection against his hip, Connor’s pretty fucking into this too, so, that’s good.

“That’s _good?_ ” Connor repeats, amused, and Jack stops kissing him to glare at him.

“Fuck you,” he says, because whatever, he doesn’t need to make sense right now. “I don’t need to make sense.”

“Well, you don’t,” Connor says.

Jack grinds his hips down in retaliation, and Connor moans, which is pretty fucking awesome. Jack would really like to hear that noise, a lot.

It turns out grinding down on Connor’s thigh and kissing across his chest is an excellent way to get Connor to groan and swear at him, which is, you know, important information that Jack needs. Connor hisses when Jack pinches his nipples, and squeaks when Jack bites at them, and sticks his hands down the back of Jack’s sweats when Jack sucks down almost hard enough to bruise. “Jesus,” Connor says breathily, and Jack agrees, because it’s pretty fucking amazing to have Connor spread out beneath him, hard and gasping and still halfway dressed.

Jack should fix that.

“What?” Connor says when Jack starts pushing down his sweatpants, and then “oh,” and then he’s lifting his hips to help. Between the two of them they get his sweats and boxers down to around Connor’s knees, far enough for Jack to finally grasp Connor’s dick, hard and leaking and hot in Jack’s hand.

It probably isn’t the best handjob in the world – it’s too dry, and it’s not like Jack really wants to spit on his hand or anything, but Connor’s making noises like it’s great, and that’s good enough. “Jack, fuck, Jack,” he moans, and it’s the best sound Jack’s ever heard. Of course Jack has to kiss him for that. 

It doesn’t take much longer until Connor’s coming all over Jack’s hand, panting into Jack’s mouth, red-cheeked and dark-eyed and perfect.

“Fuck,” Connor says as Jack strokes him through the last of it, valiantly trying to ignore his own hard on. “Fuck, that was – shit, Jack.”

“That’s my name,” Jack says.

Connor snorts. He looks like he’s thinking of something to say, but changes his mind, finally saying “come here,” one hand anchored in Jack’s hair. Of course Jack goes. 

Kissing Connor is great, but that still leaves Jack’s own dick unattended, and he can’t help grinding against Connor’s thigh just to get a little relief. Connor makes a noise, and then, still fucking into Jack’s mouth with his tongue, shoves down Jack’s sweatpants so Jack can rub against his thigh. Then he’s grabbing at Jack’s ass, and really, it’s like he wants Jack to come all over his stomach.

Connor bites Jack’s lip and pulls him down closer, hand digging into Jack’s ass, and maybe he does want Jack to come all over his stomach. 

It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time for Jack to come all over Connor’s hip. Connor kisses him the whole time, until Jack slumps against Connor, tired and spent.

Later, Connor shifts, jarring Jack out of his doze. “Hey,” he says softly, turning his head towards Jack, and Jack blinks his eyes open to look at him. “I – this isn’t going to be like the NHL awards, is it? Because the whole making out and not talking wasn’t great.”

Jack abruptly feels way more awake. “I don’t know,” he says finally, mumbling it into Connor’s shoulder. “Do you want it to be different?”

Connor huffs out a breath. “I mean,” he says finally. “I’d like to do it again sometime. With, um. Talking to each other too.”

“Oh,” Jack says, because. Well. Maybe his stupid, pointless crush isn’t quite so stupid or pointless. “I mean. Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good,” Connor says, and Jack thinks he can hear him smiling.


End file.
